not the long-stemmed kind you buy in the store,
but the kind that thrives on neglect,
thrives despite drought, despite desolation,
grows rambunctious despite crummy soil,
the wild roses you find as you walk
through the edges of desert, find them not by sight
but because of the siren song of their scent—
pink and stirring and plucky.
I am famished for beauty today,
the kind that survives
when the world is hostile,
the kind that arrives above thorns,
living books of a thousand petals unfolding,
a wild beauty almost impossible to eradicate,
the kind that sends acres of runners and roots.
I believe in such beauty. It’s found me before.